But he had trouble finding sleep again. Too many thoughts were buzzing in his head. Finally he got up, and went to see if Aket-ten might be awake at this early hour. She had always been used to going to the Temple for Dawn Rites—was she still waking that early anyway?
She was.
He found her in the courtyard of her chambers, and with her, Heklatis.
“Toreth came back,” he said as they looked up, and gave them the gist what the prince had said.
Heklatis heaved a sigh of relief. “They looked at him and saw a handsome, muscle-bound fool,” the Healer replied. “Good!”
Aket-ten looked almost faint with relief.
Kiron felt a stab of that same emotion he’d gotten at the thought of anyone else riding Avatre. This time he knew it for what it was.
Jealousy. He was jealous that Aket-ten should be that concerned for Toreth. It shocked and surprised him to the core.
He covered it by going in and sitting down. “I don’t think he’s safe—” he began.
“Neither do I!” Heklatis said firmly. “I will be doing what work I can to safeguard him. This is not over; the Great Ones could still die. There are always accidents, illnesses. Now that they know that he knows—he is not safe. Fortunately, it only takes a little magic, properly used, to defeat greater magic.” He grinned mirthlessly, showing a great many teeth. “And I have the advantage over them. I know how they are schooled; they do not know how I am.”
Kiron took a deep breath. “I came here to ask if the two of you can do something. I want to find a way to remove the Jousters from both armies.”
They both looked at him, as if wondering where in the world that idea came from, and why he would ask them to help with it.
“Both armies? That is no small task you set us,” Heklatis admitted reluctantly, “But I believe I see what your point is. Remove the Jousters, and it is army against army, in which we are equal. Remove the Jousters, and you remove the reason to send storms—which, unless they can concoct some better spell to use against the Tians, also removes the overt reason for the support of the Magi.”
Leaving only the stolen years, which even the Great Ones dare not admit to. If that is not forbidden magic, it is perilous close.
“It was Toreth’s idea that, eventually we could negate the Tian Jousters,” said Kiron. “But I fear that we may not have the time, now. If the Magi dare to use the Eye against dissenters—”
“Then they have grown too powerful, and we should look for other ways to take some of that power from them.” Heklatis nodded. “Well, we can do that. We can also look for ways to armor the Winged Ones against being used. And we can look for allies.” He raised one eyebrow. “The Bedu, do you think?”
Kiron had to shrug. “I do not know. I do not know that anyone knows the Bedu well enough to guess what they will think or do.”
“But they have a use for gold, and they might well feel threatened by our Magi,” Heklatis persisted. “Yes?”
Kiron nodded after a moment. “Yes to both, I think. They have their own magics, and the Magi cannot help but see that as a rivalry, if not a danger.”
“Then Aket-ten and I will pursue the first path together, and I—and eventually you—will pursue the second. Agreed?” asked Heklatis.
Oh, yes, the Magi should be shivering in their beds, Kiron thought cynically. A half-trained Jouster, a Winged Fledgling, and a foreign Healer. We shall defeat them and send them packing and still have time for breakfast!
But, “Agreed,” he said anyway. Because it was that—or despair. And he was not yet ready for despair.
FIFTEEN
KIRON was not ready for despair, but despair followed its own laws, and arrived on tattered wings.
It came on the wind, spreading in a sound that no one in all of Alta had ever heard before, a keening wail of a cry that broke the heart before anyone even knew the cause. It engulfed them, took them, shook them.
The sound struck all three of them like blows of a lance; all three of them gasped as one. Kiron rose, but it was Aket-ten who was halfway to the door before he was halfway to his feet.
The wail led him to the source, hard on her heels, with Heklatis not far behind, to the dragonets’ pens—to Toreth’s pen—
—to where Toreth’s dragon Re-eth-katen stood, blue-black head pointed skyward, silver-blue neck outstretched, wailing her unbearable loss to an uncaring sky.
—to where Toreth lay, sprawled half out of his cot, eyes wide with fear and fixed in death.
“Toreth!” Kiron wailed himself, and started for his friend.
“Wait!” Heklatis barked, throwing out an arm to stop him, halting him in his tracks. Just in time, as the head of the largest cobra that Kiron had ever seen rose up out of the blanket half covering Toreth’s body. It hissed, and flared its hood, daring all of them—because by now, the doorway was crowded with people—to come any closer.
The dragon went silent. In the silence, the cobra rose farther above Toreth’s body and swayed back and forth.
There was a murmur of fear, and as the cobra bent forward, they all moved involuntarily back.
“The sign of the gods—” someone muttered at the back of the crowd. “Don’t touch it!” cried someone else. “It is sacred to the gods!”
“Not my gods,” said Heklatis impatiently. He looked around swiftly, seized a sling and a handful of pellets from the weapon rack against the wall, and before anyone could stop him, let fly.
It was either the best, or the luckiest shot that Kiron had ever seen in his life, for it hit the cobra right in the head. The snake tumbled off Toreth’s body, and Heklatis made sure of the beast a moment later. He dashed across the intervening space, and crushed what was left of the head and hood beneath his sandal.
No one else moved. Not even Kiron, who felt as if he was paralyzed and could not have moved to save his own life. It was Heklatis who tenderly draped the blanket over Toreth’s face, then picked up the body of the prince, blanket and all, and carried it out. Kiron had no idea that the bandy-legged little Healer was so strong; he carried the burden as if it was nothing. The crowd parted before him, and closed up behind him, but still, no one moved except to get out of the Healer’s way.
“The sign of the gods—” someone else murmured. But all Kiron could think was—I was in that chamber before he came back. There was no snake there, and there is no way for a snake to get past his dragon.
Snakes can’t abide dragons, and dragons eat snakes. How did it get there?
Had the gods sent their sacred serpent to punish Toreth? Were the gods truly favoring the Magi against all the rest of their people?
The dragon began her keening again, and a wave of chill passed over him. A shadow seemed to pass over them all, and the wings of despair enveloped them.
The gods. The sign of the gods. How can you go against the gods?
He started to shake, and he was not the only one. He put one hand against the wall, fear welling up inside him in a bleak, black tide.
It came between him and everything else, and he felt it weaken him until he could not stand. Slowly he sank down into the sand pit, as the dragon wailed her heartbreak, and people began to back away carefully, as if this place and everything that was in it held some dreadful curse.
He lost himself in despair and grief. His eyes burned, and yet he could not weep. His throat felt choked with a lump of tears that would not leave him. His eyes burned, and he closed them, but the images in his mind kept playing over and over—Toreth, alive but a few moments ago, and now dead, with that look of terror on his face—